My Fair Mistress (41 page)

At first, he didn’t see her. But on a second pass, he not only saw her but saw her companion as well. His eyebrows shot up, then crashed down again before knitting into a scowl.

She was dancing, and from all appearances seemed neither famished nor weary. Of course, he might not have minded so much but for the identity of her companion.

Blasted Summersfield,
Rafe cursed.
The man should get his damned hands off my wife!

Allowing Julianna to dance with Ethan or Tony was bad enough, since both men were well-known rakes who could charm a woman with nothing more than a look. But despite their reputations, Rafe knew he could trust both of them implicitly; Julianna was as safe with either of them as she was with her own brother.

But Summersfield was an entirely different story altogether.

Does the man care nothing for the fact that Julianna is married?
Then again, for some men, marriage only increased a lady’s allure. In the Ton, as Rafe well knew, the majority of couples married for wealth or social position. To their way of thinking, love and passion were to be indulged in later, emotions to be discovered outside the sanctity of the marriage vows.

Despite her earlier refusals to wed Summersfield, it was plain she enjoyed the man’s company. Could she be forming a serious attraction to him, a bond that might one day turn to love? A sick lump formed in Rafe’s stomach at the thought.

Grinding his teeth together, he watched Russell Summersfield whirl Julianna across the ballroom floor, the dulcet strains of a waltz floating like honey drops in the air. With a smile on her rosy lips, Julianna seemed to be having a grand time, her gown of guinea gold satin a perfect foil for her dark, silky hair and luminous brown eyes.

Although a good eight inches separated her body from the earl’s, the space between them was far too close in Rafe’s estimation.
A foot would be more acceptable,
he thought.
Or better still, the entire length of the ballroom.

Fingers curling into fists at his sides, he strode forward. He didn’t care how it might appear; he was going to cut in. But after only five steps, the musicians played a final flourish of notes, then brought the dance to an end.

Rafe kept walking.

By the time he reached the pair, Summersfield had Julianna’s hand settled atop his arm. “Shall we make our way to the dining room to enjoy a bite of supper?” the earl inquired.

Julianna nodded. “Yes, that would be lovely, thank you.”

“Why indeed, thank you, Summersfield,” Rafe declared, maneuvering himself so that he blocked their path. “But that will not be necessary. I shall see to my
wife.
”

Surprise lighted Julianna’s features. “Rafe, I did not know you were returned.”

“No, I am sure you did not. But seeing that I am, I shall take you in to supper.”

Summersfield raised a brow. “Actually, that privilege should fall to me. By tradition, the man sharing the supper dance with a lady has the right to escort her in to the meal.”

Arrogant ass!
Rafe thought.
Does he think I don’t know that?

“And you,” Rafe said, uncaring what Summersfield or anyone else might think, “have the right to release her and keep your teeth in your head.”

Julianna gasped, then did so again when Rafe reached out and grasped her hand, transferring it with deliberate firmness to his own sleeve.

Holding her hand beneath his, he pinned the earl with a look. “One more thing. I would take it as a personal favor if you stopped chatting up Lady Pendragon in public places. I don’t much care for you taking her for tea, either, so do not do it again.”

Julianna’s eyes widened, plainly appalled by his rude behavior. “Rafe!”

Ignoring her, he fixed his gaze on his rival. “Do I make myself clear?”

The earl returned his gaze. “Yes, perfectly.”

Shifting on his heel, Summersfield turned toward Julianna and executed a bow. “My lady, a pleasure as always.”

Then he was gone.

For a long moment, neither of them said a word.

“Julianna—”

“Don’t,” she hissed in a low tone. “Do not even speak to me.” As he watched, she fixed a smile on her face. “Now take me in to supper.”

“We can go home if you would prefer.”

“I
would
prefer leaving, but you’ve made that option an impossibility. If we are to salvage the situation and put to rest what is otherwise sure to be prime fodder for tomorrow’s gossip mill, we
have
to go in to supper. You will procure plates for each of us while we will pretend to be happy and cheerful for the next hour. After supper, I will take to the floor for one more dance and then, and only then, can we go home.”

Does she also imagine I do not know the rules?
he wondered, anger flashing in his system.
I just don’t give a fig about them, that’s all.

He stiffened. “Madam, I do not care for your tone, and if I say we are leaving, then we are leaving.”

She shot him a suddenly imploring glance.

“But in the interests of peace,” he said, relenting slightly, “we shall go in to supper. Another dance, however, is out of the question.”

With her hand still held beneath his own, they made their way to the dining room.

Nearly two hours later, Julianna allowed Rafe to assist her from the coach. She said nothing, just as she had said nothing to him during the long ride home. He too had been silent, staring broodingly out the carriage window.

Weary and out-of-sorts, she entered the house, murmuring a soft greeting to the footman before making her way up the stairs. All she wanted was to change into her nightgown, brush out her hair, and climb into bed, where she hoped sleep would make the dreadful evening fade away.

Supper had been an ordeal, but she believed her and Rafe’s efforts to feign newlywedded bliss had achieved the desired effect. So long as Summersfield said nothing about the confrontation—and she very much doubted he would—the incident would be quickly forgotten. Remembering back, she didn’t think any of the other guests had been close enough to overhear the exchange between Rafe and the earl. Otherwise, all anyone would have seen was the two men exchanging a few words.

Even now, she could scarcely credit Rafe’s abominable behavior, nor his unforgivable rudeness to poor Lord Summersfield.
There is simply no understanding that man,
she grumbled to herself, as she let Daisy unfasten her gown.

All she and the earl had done was share a dance. True, Rafe had once been jealous of Summersfield, but what cause did he have to be now? She suspected his barbarian tactics were merely a case of territoriality. He might not want her, but he didn’t want any other man to have her either.

Not that she was interested in another man. For goodness sake, she was five months pregnant! A woman that far along would either have to be madly in love or in need of a quick trip to Bedlam in order to consider starting an illicit love affair. Besides, as much as she liked Russell Summersfield, she had never felt more for him than friendship, and she knew she never would.

Raising her arms, she let Daisy slip a nightgown over her head, then help her into her a warm, ruby-colored velvet robe. Shooing her sleepy maid from the room to find her own much-needed bed, Julianna took a seat at her dressing table and reached for her brush.

Regardless of her feelings for the earl, she mused as she pulled the bristles through her hair, Rafe had no right to treat her or Summersfield in such a shabby manner. He’d acted rudely, embarrassing both of them, and for no good reason. Not to mention the fact that Rafe had warned the other man off, as if she had no say in her dance partners nor her friends.

She set down her brush with a sharp click.

Whomever I choose to like or dislike is my business and none of Rafe’s,
she thought.
He may be my husband, but he doesn’t run my life—well, not all of it anyway,
she amended, thinking how he’d gotten his way in nearly every confrontation they’d had since their marriage, and even earlier than that, come to think of it.

Before she had time to reconsider her actions, she rose to her feet and walked across the room. Twisting the key to unlock the connecting door, she rapped her knuckles briefly on the polished wood, then, without waiting for his reply, shoved open the door.

Just a few steps past the threshold, she stopped.

Spacious yet comfortable, the room held a distinctly masculine flavor, trimmed in warm browns and deep reds that resurrected long-ago thoughts of dragons and shadowy lairs.

Having never before been in the room, she couldn’t help but glance at the huge tester bed with its burgundy hangings and satin counterpane. Nor could she fail to see the massive mahogany chest-on-chest that stood against the far wall, its top cabinet doors opened to display a double row of books and a crystal decanter of brandy, the round stopper lying next to the bottle.

With only a lone candle on one nightstand and the mellow illumination from the fire burning quietly in the grate, she didn’t immediately see Rafe. Seconds later, she spied him seated in a wide leather wing chair not far from the fireplace. Still dressed in his white evening shirt and black breeches, his throat lay bare; his discarded cravat piled in a heap on his dressing table, his waistcoat draped over the back of another chair. A lock of raven hair curled against his forehead, a faint shadow of whiskers riding his cheeks. With his legs stretched out in a negligent pose, he looked the part of sin personified.

Her pulse quickened at the sight of him, her breath growing momentarily shallow.

Having been caught in the midst of taking a drink, he swallowed a mouthful of liquor, then lowered his glass.

“I would have a word with you, my lord,” she declared, stepping farther into the room.

He raised a single, inquiring eyebrow. “About what?” he drawled. “Unless you have come to apologize.”

Her mouth fell open, breath catching in her chest. “Apologize! If anyone needs to apologize, it would be you. Your behavior tonight at the ball was inexcusable. You were unconscionably rude to Lord Summersfield, to say nothing of myself. I have rarely been so mortified.”

“And what of your own behavior, madam?” he countered. “You are hardly without fault in this matter, cavorting around the ballroom in full sight of everyone.”

“I wasn’t cavorting, I was dancing. Or do you not know what dancing looks like?”

“Of course I know. And that”—he paused, circling a pair of fingers in the air—“whatever it is you were doing, displayed a far greater resemblance to the former than the latter.”

“For your information, the dance is called the waltz, and it is all the rage.”

“I’m sure it is, since it allows a libertine like Summersfield to put his hands all over a lady. He ought to keep his blasted hands to himself.”

She stiffened. “The earl is not a libertine.”

Rafe gave an impolite snort.

“And that is quite beside the point,” she continued, moving closer. “He and I did nothing wrong tonight. You are the one who barged in and created a scene. A scene, I might add, that could have damaged your brand-new reputation among the Ton. You should be glad Summersfield isn’t the sort to talk, or else he could make a great deal of trouble for you.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Believe me, I am not worried about Summersfield so long as he stays well away from you.”

She took another few steps forward. “And that is another thing. You had no right warning him off. I will choose my friends as I please.”

His eyes narrowed. “You may choose as many
female
friends as you like, but not men, and especially not Summersfield. Perhaps other members of your set don’t mind being cuckolded, but I am not one of them.”

Her mouth nearly dropped open again, unable to believe what she was hearing. “Is that what you think? That I am having an affair?”

“No. At least not for the time being. But I will not like it later any more than I would like it now. As I recall, I once told you I don’t share what is mine. And you, my dear wife, are mine.”

She blew out a breath. “Why do you even care? You don’t want me except as something you can manipulate and control.”

An intense gleam sparked in his eyes. “Who says I don’t want you? As I recall, you are the one who banned me from your bed. I will be happy to return anytime you like.”

A quiver rippled over her skin.

Rafe, back in my bed?

A part of her longed to say yes, a strong part. Inwardly reciting all her reasons against allowing such a thing, she forced herself to shake her head. “No.”

He tossed back the last of the spirits, then set the glass aside. “Are you sure? You don’t look entirely certain to me.”

“I am,” she assured him, wondering why her words didn’t sound convincing, not even to herself.

“Mayhap we need to test the matter,” he continued.

“Test it how?”

Before she could think to evade him, he reached out and captured one of her hands, pulling her forward to gently tumble her onto his lap.

“Rafe, what do you think you’re doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

She squirmed. “Let me go.”